Sometimes in my blog, I mention that I am 39. And sometimes lovely people express astonishment at how youthful I look. And they say that I ‘seem’ younger, which I think is code for ‘acting immature’. But what is 39? As a teenager, I used to think of 39 as quite old, as middle-aged. But that is not how I now feel.
I cared more about my age when I was younger. I always wanted to be older, so that I would be taken more seriously. And now that I am approaching 40, I am not that fussed about the number. I am happy. My life is not perfect. I am far from what I want to be. Far from how I want to look. But life has treated me well, for the most part. And even the bad things aren’t so bad because they got me to where I am today.
My age, my number means less than my experience. I have lived. I have traveled. And thanks to Husband, I have loved (cheesy, I know but still true). I don’t know when my age will begin to be an issue. Maybe I will turn 40 and freak out. Maybe 50 is the number that will send me into a midlife crisis.
All I do know is that for now, my age does not define me. My lack of youth does not make me old. I have a young and lively heart. And though my body, and feet, don’t cooperate and party like they used to, I am not old. I am not my age. I am just me.
I am linking up to The Prompt this week, where the topic is Age. How do you feel about growing old?